Fairytale of the Upper East Side
by Theilian
Summary: Roger and Carmen: the perfect couple - well, almost. Despite Roger's inability to resist temptation. But what happens when Roger has a one-night-stand that refuses to take no for an answer? Is a happy ending too much to wish for?
1. Merry Little Christmas

Author's Note: What, you weren't paying attention last time? Still not mine!! I just enjoy playing with them from time to time ... well, come on, who wouldn't?!

_This one's for the Ronacher gang, because I love you all to bits!_

_And for The Muse, mein Freund, as always._

:Theilian:

**1: Merry Little Christmas**

For Christmas:

Roger gave Leo a stress ball. He suspected, from the not-quite-convincing-enough look of surprise on Leo's face, that he'd probably been given other, similar gifts already (to be honest, it was fairly likely for Leo to have been given stress balls by anyone who had ever met him); but it was at least a _luxury_ stress ball, and Leo was nothing if not a sweetie, and he'd smiled nicely and said thankyou, and Max had assured Roger that Leo had been rather touched by the gesture. Even if he _had _seemed a little like a seven-year-old saying thankyou to an elderly auntie for a revolting hand-knitted sweater he would rather die than wear.

Leo gave Ulla a beautiful mink coat. She somehow managed to get even more high-pitched and unintelligible than she usually was, and hadn't taken the coat off all day (much to Shirley's disappointment), despite the fact that they all stayed indoors and didn't venture out once. But then, she _was _Swedish, which had to account for at least some of the goofiness. Perhaps in Sweden they wore outdoor coats indoors all the time. Apparently it got pretty chilly there in winter.

Ulla gave Roger a wonderful pair of earrings, enormous and glittering like a pair of miniature comets, which would go perfectly with the outfit he was planning on dazzling everyone with at the next Choreographer's Ball. He'd found a painting in a book, of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, from way back when, and had been _inspired_; she had wonderful long dark hair in which she was wearing diamond pins shaped like stars, and a huge white dress covered in stars to match, and Roger had decided that even if nobody knew who on earth he was meant to be, he would look so stunning that it simply wouldn't matter.

Carmen gave Roger a little portrait, drawn from the director's favourite photo of himself, one that had been taken at the opening night party for _Prisoners of Love_. Apparently one of Carmen's friends, who worked in the box office at the theatre, was a pretty good artist in her spare time, and Carmen had persuaded her to copy the photo for him. It was simple, black-and-white, almost just a sketch; but Roger had never seen anything so lovely. In the photograph he was standing beside a flushed and beaming Carmen, surrounded by colleagues and admirers, glass of champagne in one hand, laughing unreservedly at something just out of shot. Roger had always loved the photo because for once, he wasn't posing or preening; he was simply loving being Roger DeBris, loving that night and those people and that life. Carmen's friend had ignored most of the background and concentrated solely on Roger's face, the light in his eyes, the way one unruly curl of hair was flopping down over his forehead. "It's you, Roger," Carmen had said, softly, as Roger unwrapped the portrait and turned, speechless for once, to stare at his lover in disbelief. Carmen grinned. "No, I mean, obviously it's _you_, I mean ... that's ... that's _my _you, that picture. That's the you that I know."

Roger gave Carmen the shock of his life barely a week later, when the younger man returned earlier than expected from a rehearsal and, bouncing into the bedroom, found Roger and his latest pet actor - who was supposed to have been at the theatre, but who had called in sick earlier that morning - engaged in something that was definitely _not_ a dance rehearsal, by any stretch of the imagination.

Carmen gave Roger a long, sad look, turned around and left.

There was no shrieking, no dramatic declaration of broken hearts and intolerable hurt; when Roger finally came cringing downstairs to beg forgiveness there was simply a note, propped up against the portrait, which had been given pride of place on the mantelpiece. But by the time he had spotted it, by the time he had picked it up in a shaking hand and opened its elaborate origami folds (in some things Carmen would never change, it seemed; he was no more capable of leaving a note folded in the ordinary way than he was able to fly), Roger already knew.

This time Carmen had gone.

It wasn't so much the silence in the apartment that told him what had happened; it was the quality of that silence. That strange, absolute kind of silence when you can tell, without even having to check each room, that you're completely alone. The vases of luxuriant flowers on the tables, the spotlessness of the place, the way his footsteps sounded so muffled on the new, extravagantly thick carpet; everything spoke of Carmen. Everything was as it should be, exactly as Carmen had ordered it; yet at the same time it was all horribly wrong, for now, suddenly, Carmen's things were speaking of his absence.

_Roger mine,_ the note said, in Carmen's beautiful ornate handwriting, _I wish you well. Truly I do. But this has happened so many times before, and I would be a fool to believe you when you tell me, as you are bound to do, that it will never happen again. Because of course it will happen again. I don't think it's personal, I don't think you ever mean to hurt me, but I simply don't believe you know how to resist temptation. I think that little actor of yours (Are you sure about him? He is terribly _vanilla, _Roger darling, have you noticed?) ought to be made aware of this, by the way - you may not have realised it but he is utterly besotted with you, and it isn't fair. None of this is fair. _

_I love you, Roger, and that is the most not-fair thing of all._

_Always,_

_your Carmen._

A shuffling sort of sound from the stairs made Roger jump; he had forgotten, in the shock of Carmen's note, that he was not entirely alone after all. He turned to stare at the young man standing there, awkward and embarrassed, clutching his coat to his chest like one of Leo's damn security blankets. Roger looked hard at him, seeing him properly for perhaps the first time, and realised with a sinking feeling that Carmen had been right. He _was_ vanilla. From the top of his head with its mop of floppy blond hair, down through his cream shirt, slightly darker cream pants, and oh, for crying out loud, even the coat was a sort of pale camel color - he really _was_ vanilla. Roger found that he couldn't even remember the boy's name.

What a contrast, what a horrible sick contrast to Carmen - okay, fair enough, it was true that Carmen rarely wore anything that wasn't black, but at least it didn't make him look as though he was trying to blend into the wallpaper. And generally speaking it did tend to be black with sparkles, or sequins, or spangles ...

"Should I go?" little vanilla thingy asked, nervously, and Roger nodded, not really trusting himself to speak. He reached out blindly with one hand, trying to find something - anything - with which to distract himself from the awfulness of the situation; his fingers touched the soft velvety petals of one of the flowers in the nearest vase, and he stroked it gently, over and over and over. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, if he concentrated hard enough on the flower and not on anything else, maybe when he looked up again Vanilla would be gone, and he could start trying to fix things with Carmen.

Again.

Touching the petal was like touching beautiful soft skin.

Like stroking Carmen's cheek.

After a few minutes of standing there with Roger's silence weighing heavily on his shoulders, the boy seemed to sag in the middle; a person-shaped balloon slowly deflating. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again without uttering a single sound. He clamped his lips together tightly, in a huge effort not to say anything else, anything he might regret; or perhaps he was trying not to cry.

Roger carried on concentrating hard on his flower.

He felt the slight movement of air in the room as Vanilla moved from the stairs across to the door; sensed the boy turning to look at him just once; then there was a blast of icy New York winter, the catch closed with a _snick_ and Vanilla was gone.

Roger felt all the breath whoosh out of him. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding it. He only just made it as far as the couch before his legs gave out, and he sat down hard on the cushions and pillows - Carmen's ridiculous pink pillows - and dropped his head into his hands.

He never noticed the flower as it fell unheeded from his fingers, landing silently on the floor. Never noticed it, hours later, when he finally dragged himself, exhausted, to his feet, crushing the petals into the carpet as he staggered toward the stairs. It wasn't until he came back down the following morning, bleary-eyed and wretched, and saw it lying there, crumpled and broken and ruined, that he realised what he'd done, carelessly destroying something that only moments before he had found so beautiful. And not even noticing.

Just like he'd done to Carmen.

**: : : : : **


	2. Guilty Conscience

**2: Guilty Conscience**

"_I never meant for it to happen _... " Max's voice rose mockingly to an unpleasant whiny falsetto.

"I don't talk like that," Roger began, crossly, but Max carried on regardless.

"Every bloody time, Roger, _every _bloody time. You should put that on your tombstone - _Here lies Roger DeBris: He never meant it, honest! _I never thought I'd ever hear myself say this, but - poor Carmen. Poor kid. _Jeez_, Roger!"

Leo, hovering behind Max like a shadow, bit his lip nervously. He hated confrontation in any case, and when it was a confrontation between his closest friend and their director - who still scared Leo half to death, to tell the truth - well, that just made it worse. Max was getting very red in the face, stomping around the office, and Leo was having a hard time keeping up with him. Roger simply sat on the couch, a dazed expression on his face. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Which was pretty much exactly the case.

"So," Max demanded, coming to a halt so abruptly that Leo crashed into the back of him, "where does this leave _us_, Roger, hey? We've already lost that damn dancer because apparently you keep your brain in your pants! So will we need to start looking for another director any time soon, do you think, or can you pull yourself together by, say, _three days ago?!"_

"Three - ?"

"We are seriously behind schedule, Roger. We need to get the rehearsals back on track - listen, Roger, I'm sorry about Carmen, okay? But it's been nearly a whole damn _month_ and ... hey, you'll sort it out in the end, right? I mean, you two ... this isn't exactly the first time this has happened, is it? And you've always been fine. I'm sure you'll be fine this time too ... "

"I don't think so," Roger mumbled. "I don't think we're going to be fine, this time, Max darling. I don't even know where he _is_."

"You what?" Max stopped his incessant pacing and stared at Roger. Leo decided now might be a good time to sit down, before anyone noticed him; hiding behind a desk had always worked fairly well back at Whitehall & Marks ...

"I don't _know _where he _is_," repeated Roger, sulkily. "He's not staying with any of his friends, he doesn't _have _any family - "

"Does he not?" Max asked, interestedly, distracted for the moment from the problem at hand. Roger shook his head. "No, there's nobody now. There was a ... grandma, or a great-aunt or something, but she died a couple of years ago, and he never _ever _mentions his parents so I always thought they must be dead too, but I guess they might still be around someplace, although I really don't think he keeps in touch with them, there's never a birthday card or Christmas card or anything, I wouldn't even - "

"Roger?"

Roger screeched to a halt mid-sentence. "What, Max? What?"

"Shut _up_, Roger. Please. Before I have to kill you."

Roger scowled at Max down the length of his nose and carried on, exactly as though Max hadn't spoken " - know where they live. Lived. You see, Max? I don't even know that! My goodness, oh, for heaven's _sake _- " Roger exclaimed suddenly, leaping to his feet and storming around the office, taking up where Max had left off " - how ridiculous is this? How utterly, utterly _silly_, darlings, is my life?"

Leo glanced at Max to see whether he was actually expected to answer that one - he didn't think it would be a very good idea, but sometimes Roger's rhetorical questions turned out _not _to be, and somehow Leo always seemed to get it the wrong way round. Luckily, Max, catching Leo's eye, simply shook his head and pressed his lips together in a very definite "no".

"Ten years we've been together," Roger was wailing now, gesturing somewhat wildly as he did so, "ten _years_, and I don't even know the first thing about him, do I?! I don't even know his blasted NAME ... "

"You don't - ? " Leo blurted, incredulously, but Max thwacked him hard in the shoulder, and he subsided with a muttered "Ow!" Shooting his partner a "Shut up or else" sort of look, Max grabbed Roger's arm and steered the taller man carefully back to the couch before he damaged any of the furnishings. He looked a little bit like a fat tugboat trying to guide an elegant yacht; albeit one that had lost all the air from its sails.

Having apparently used up today's dramatic energy, Roger flopped back down onto the couch, picking up one of the pillows and hugging it like a lost child. Max sank down beside him, pulling out his handkerchief to mop at his face; he extended the other hand as if he were about to pat Roger comfortingly on the leg, but thought better of it and patted him on the shoulder instead. Nobody said anything. Leo, as uncomfortable with the silence as he had been with all the shouting, began chewing on his lip again; he picked up a fountain pen, pulled off the top, clicked it back on again, put it down beside Max's in-tray, then moved it a few inches, lining it up so it made a perfect right-angle with the telephone. There were several old scripts in a pile by the lamp on the other side of the desk, all higgledy-piggledy, and Leo, who found it impossible to stop tidying once he'd started, began shuffling them together, neatening them up, making sure all the edges matched ...

After several minutes, he judged it safe enough to risk a glance up at the others, and found, to his intense relief, that Max seemed to have the situation back under control. At least, his face had returned to its normal colour again, which was probably a good sign. And Roger was no longer drama-queening around the office, which was _definitely _a good sign.

"Okay, Roger, here's the deal," Max said, having apparently reached a decision, "You go home, have a shower, have something to eat, get some sleep, right? We'll head over to the rehearsal and see what we can do for today; and _tomorrow_, things get back to normal. They're good, your team, they've been doing a grand job keeping things going, but - I never thought I'd ever say _this_, either - but they're just not_ you_, Roger. I _know _- " he added hastily, for Roger showed signs of wanting to interrupt again " - I know it'll be strange, without Carmen, but like they say, the show must go on, right? Isn't that ... why we all do what we do?"

"Well, yes, but - " Roger began, but his heart clearly wasn't in the argument, and his voice tailed off.

"But nothing," said Max briskly, heaving himself to his feet and reaching down to pull Roger up, too. "That's it. Therapy session is over. Off you go, there's a good fellow."

Leo kept his head down, sorting out the files and folders, not looking up. He heard the office door close, heard a huge sigh of relief, heard the creaking of the couch as Max sat down again, a little too heavily.

"Leeeeeeeo ... "

Max's voice held a definite note of wheedling. Like he wanted something. Leo didn't look up.

"Leo, Leo, Leo ... " Now he sounded half-amused, half-exasperated. "Do you really think, my dear Bloom, that after all this time I can't tell when you have a guilty conscience?"

"Ah ... guilty - ?" Leo risked the merest of glances, and regretted it instantly. Max was grinning all over his face. "Let me see, now," he said, ticking points off on his fingers, "you've been skulking behind that desk all afternoon, you're not meeting anyone's eyes - not that you ever really do - you're going red, you're faffing about with all my stuff - "

"I'm what?"

"Faffing."

"What's faffing?"

"_You _are. Leo, my boy, you're hiding something."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am - "

"Leo, you know you'll never beat me at this game. Why don't you just save us both a lot of time and effort and just tell me what it is you've done this time?"

Leo blushed furiously, tried to think of some clever reply, failed miserably, and settled for poking his tongue out at Max and blowing a raspberry.

"Oh, _very _mature," Max smirked. "Now come on, out with it! What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything," Leo began, but Max, going wide-eyed and with a sudden gasp of realisation, leapt off the couch and came over to lean on the desk, looming over the younger man. "Or should I say ... " he said slowly, " ... _who?" _

Leo started to sink down in his chair.

"How long?" Max demanded, jabbing a finger at Leo's chest.

"How long ... what?"

"How _long_," Max repeated, as though he was talking to a very stupid six-year-old, "has _Carmen _... been _staying _... with _you?!" _

**: : : : :**


	3. From Bad To Worse

**3: From Bad To Worse**

Roger decided to walk back home, rather than taking the subway or a cab. He figured he could probably use the exercise, despite the bitter cold, plus, hopefully, the long walk might give him the time he needed to sort out all the clutter that was currently filling his mind, making it impossible for him to concentrate on anything else. Digging his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, he hunched his shoulders against the icy wind, and headed off in the direction of the Upper East Side.

Three blocks later, he was already starting to regret it.

His nose was numb, he couldn't feel his hands and was beginning to lose all sensation in his feet, too. He realised that Max had meant to be kind - probably - but returning to rehearsals the following day was the last thing he wanted to do. He missed Carmen so much it was an actual physical ache, like a bruise, deep inside his chest. If someone had asked him, all those years ago when they first met, what he thought he would miss about the insane, beautiful, bizarre young man who shared his life, he would have said something like _his body_, or _his incredible kisses _... but now, it wasn't any of that.

It was _the way he knows what I'm going to say before I say it; the way he over-pronounces everything. The way his skin always looks so ridiculously soft and feels even softer; it's the little trinkets and good-luck charms he gives me before a show. It's those great big blue eyes that look so alive with mischief when he's smiling, so dreamy and sad when he's not. _Roger pulled one hand from his pocket and dashed away his tears before they froze on his cheeks. _It's the way he never walks across a room if he can dance instead._

And not even to know where he was ...

He'd called everyone. Everyone he could think of. He'd even gone back to the bar where they'd first met, thinking maybe, for some crazy reason, Carmen would be there, revisiting old haunts, on some sort of sentimental pilgrimage ... but no. No-one had seen him, not since that last rehearsal before ...

A whole bloody month.

Roger couldn't get by without Carmen for a day, let alone a month! And he'd always felt like it was the same the other way around - like Carmen wouldn't make it through twenty-four Rogerless hours, either ... apparently, he'd been wrong.

_He always was full of surprises ... _

Two more blocks and Roger was beginning to worry that he'd be frozen into an ice-sculpture before he ever made it back home. He was starting to shake so badly that any second now he was going to shatter into a million pieces ...

Which was when the car pulled up at the kerb a few yards ahead; and as he trudged past it, the window was wound down and a voice yelled his name.

He glanced up, disinterestedly, didn't recognise the car at all - it was a smallish silver one, totally indistinguishable from a million others - and carried on walking. Vaguely, he heard his name again, shouted this time with more urgency; then the slamming of a car door, running footsteps, and then someone grabbed his arm and forced him to stop walking and turn around.

"Oh," Roger said, unable to summon up enough feeling to be surprised, "it's you. Hello."

Vanilla stood breathing hard from running after the older man, his face flushed a pleasant pink, his hair all over the place. He ran one hand through it, leaving it attractively rumpled, and grinned nervously. "Hello to you, too," he replied. "Didn't you hear me? I thought I was yelling loud enough to wake the dead, but - "

Roger blinked. And then he felt one side of his mouth twist up in a bitter smile that didn't feel like it belonged on his face at all. "Perhaps I'm too far past dead already," he said miserably, and the smile slid from Vanilla's face.

"Oh, come on," he said, worriedly, "surely things aren't _that _bad, are they? You and Carmen - "

"There _is _no 'me and Carmen'!" Roger shouted, taking even himself by surprise. Vanilla backed up a couple of steps, clutching at the scarf around his neck. It was brown and black and - _no change there, then _- cream, and Roger wanted to grab hold of it, too, and twist it and tighten it and -

And -

And then the fury disappeared as quickly as it had come. He hung his head. "Sorry," he muttered, "didn't mean to yell. Not your fault."

"Well ... " Vanilla stepped forward again, and placed one hand on Roger's chest. Roger looked up, shocked by this unexpected boldness in someone he'd thought of as being a little bit weak, and found an extraordinary look on the other's face. A look of blazing triumph, as though Roger had just awarded him some incredible prize. "It sort of _is _my fault," he said, and the hand on Roger's chest clenched suddenly into a fist, scrunching up the expensive material of the director's favourite winter coat, " ... but maybe that's okay. Maybe I could help ... make it better."

He moved closer still. "You can blame me, if you like ... that's fine. You could ... punish me ... " he whispered, and Roger, horrified at the thought, tried to break away and couldn't. Vanilla laughed, softly. Went up on tiptoes and kissed Roger, not quite on the cheek, not quite on the lips. Roger pushed him away, revolted. "Stop it!" he shouted, and added, harshly, "How clear do you need me to make this? _I don't want you!_ Leave me alone!" This time Vanilla let go, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms across his chest. Still with that blazing look in his eyes.

"I'll see you around, Roger," he said, as casually as if they'd just been arranging to meet for lunch at Sardi's or something; before Roger could recover his wits enough to say anything more, he turned away, back to his car. Roger watched until it disappeared around the corner in the distance.

He stood watching for a good ten minutes.

Just to be sure.

**: : : : :**


	4. Tough Love

**4: Tough Love**

"I don't think he's going to make it," Leo said quietly. Max screwed up his whole face - actually he seemed to be screwing up his whole body, which looked painful - and Leo held his breath. One of these days Max was going to give himself a coronary, doing that. "He's over an hour late, Max - should we just start without him?"

"Damn him, damn him, damn him," Max muttered almost - but not quite - under his breath.

"Okey-dokey!" Ulla, zillion-kilowatt smile firmly in place, stepped between her husband and imminent disaster. "Max, stop that, please, before you explode us all. And don't you worry, my little flower," she added, turning to pinch Leo's cheek, "Ulla and Scott take rehearsal. Ulla take care of everything, no problems. Yes? And Max and you can go to Roger's and - "

"Kill him," Max growled.

"Make sure he's dandy and fine," said Ulla, firmly.

Leo almost smiled. He caught Ulla's eye as he and Max gathered up their coats and hats, and raised one eyebrow in a silent question. Ulla, understanding him perfectly as always, gave him a rueful smile and shook her head, ever-so-slightly. _No, _she seemed to be saying, _it's not the time to tell Roger where Carmen is. Not yet. _She was probably right. If they told the director now, he'd probably go flouncing round to Leo and Ulla's apartment and drag poor Carmen back to the Upper East Side townhouse when Carmen really wasn't ready to even _see _him yet. It wouldn't do either of them any good, in the long run.

Leo sighed. The trouble with the long run was ... well, that it was long. Much as he had come to like Carmen a whole lot since they'd met, back in the good old _Springtime _days, having him as a houseguest was ... to be honest, it was driving him nuts. Especially the way things were at the moment. Carmen in a good mood was something to behold: manic, overexcitable (to put it mildly) and very, _very _loud; Carmen in a bad mood was pretty much the same, if a little louder; but a depressed Carmen was something Leo had never expected to encounter. And now it was something that was camped out on his sofabed.

He was like a stranger. He didn't make any noise, which Ulla didn't seem to mind but which was starting to freak Leo out. It had been Leo who'd found him, Leo who had brought him back to his and Ulla's apartment, Leo who now felt ridiculously responsible for him. Leo had literally bumped into him in the street - Carmen, who rarely drank (and then only the finest champagne), had been weaving down the street clutching a bottle of gin, and it was a miracle that Leo had managed to grab him before he went under a bus. He hadn't known what to do with him, but he had figured Ulla would, and so he had somehow gotten Carmen into a cab. Apart from begging them - once he had sobered up enough to realise where he was - not to say anything to Roger, he had hardly spoken. He never went out. He merely sat staring into space, and he didn't blink much. Leo had watched him for a whole hour, once, and counted maybe twenty blinks the whole time. That couldn't be normal. They found themselves talking in whispers around him, as though he were sufferering from some incurable illness. All the bounce, all the joy, all the weirdness they had come to take for granted; all of it crushed out of him by Roger's betrayal.

Leo could understand it, to an extent - after all, if Ulla ever - _don't even think it, Leo, knock on wood _- did the same to him, he'd probably ... well, he'd probably be in a nice room with padded walls by now. But what Leo couldn't understand was ... it wasn't as if Roger hadn't done this before. Let's be honest. This was the third time since Leo had known the pair of them that Roger had cheated; and every time, Carmen would throw a wobbly, Roger would beg forgiveness, and things would carry on as before. Until the next time. But this time ...

This time it was different. Maybe even Carmen's patience had limits. But Leo hoped fervently that they'd find a way of working things out soon. Because he couldn't bear to live with the ghost of Carmen Ghia for much longer.

**: : : : :**

"That's wrong!" Leo blurted, and clutched at Max's arm in horror. "Max, that is so, SO wrong! Whatever happened to _I Feel Pretty?!"_

"All right, calm down," Max said, patting Leo's hand in a comforting manner. "I'm sure it's not as bad as - "

"But it's - " Leo's other hand was edging towards his pocket. Max, quick as a flash, made a grab for the hand and halted it before Leo could produce the dreaded blue blanket and embarrass the life out of them both. Leo squeaked but didn't fight back, and of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, that was the point at which the door opened. Roger gave them both a very pointed look and said, sarcastically, "Oh, sweet. Holding hands and everything. How charming."

"We weren't - "

"We're not - "

"Darlings, _really_." Roger stepped back and gestured for them to come in. It felt completely wrong, Leo thought. It should be Carmen opening the door for them, offering to take their hats and coats ... he had a sudden vivid memory of the first time he and Max had ever come here; the look on Carmen's face as he had oh-so-politely offered to take their swastikas, and he almost laughed. Almost cried.

Roger was still talking; but it sounded less like a conversation and more like someone desperately trying to fill the silence. " ... now, I must admit," he babbled, "and no offence to your beautiful Ulla, Leo, but you and Max really _would _make an adorable couple ... no, seriously, as if I'd believe for a single _second _... coffee?"

"Coffee? What?"

"Coffee, Max," Roger said very seriously. "It's a drink made from roast beans. You never know, you might like it. I'll put the kettle on."

Max was growing dangerously red again. "I know what bloody _coffee _is, Roger, for God's sake! We're not here for coffee!"

"No, I realise that," the director said, sadly. "I know I'm horribly late for your rehearsal, Max, and I'm sorry. I just ... I know you think it's for the best, but I don't know ... I don't know if I can face it." He glanced over his shoulder as though he was expecting someone to be there, listening. Leo was reminded of someone, but he couldn't think who it was. And then he remembered, as Roger did it again - it was Leo himself. The old Leo, back in the hateful Whitehall & Marks days, waiting - always waiting - for the blow to fall. Always expecting to get caught. Always afraid.

"Of course you can!" Max sounded over-the-top hearty, and Leo winced. Perhaps it was time to change the subject.

"What happened to your doorbell, Roger?" he asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. Roger went white. "I thought ... " he began, and slumped into the nearest chair. "It reminded me too much of Carmen," he said, very quietly. "So I changed it."

Oh, crap. Now it was Max's turn to wince. The two producers stared at each other helplessly over Roger's bowed head; and then, suddenly, Max grinned. Leo blinked at him in wide-eyed ignorance for a couple of seconds, and then he cottoned on. He grinned back. Before Roger had a chance to protest, they each grabbed one of his arms, as hard as they could, and marched him to the door. He wouldn't need his coat; Max's car was outside waiting. They hustled the astounded director out of the house and down the steps and into the car, and ordered Max's driver to head as fast as he could to the rehearsal rooms.

"Tough love," Max declared proudly. "Works every time."

**: : : : :**


	5. Paranoia and Burglary

**5: Paranoia and Burglary**

"And _one _and two and three and four and _one _and two - "

Max hardly dared to believe it, but it looked as though things were ... possibly ... back on track. Okay, so it was Ulla helping Scott take the dance rehearsal - which was interesting, to say the least, as she wasn't all that good at counting - instead of Carmen. But at least Roger was back in his special director's chair, from which he would leap every ten seconds or so in order to correct someone's posture or to berate them for not having learnt their lines ... it was familiar, and it made Max feel comfortable. Like wearing his favourite smoking jacket.

So maybe things would be fine.

"And _one _and two and spin and spin and _one _and two, and whoops! Are you okay?"

Maybe not.

Roger, having untangled the unfortunate dancers, sat back down again and ran his fingers through his hair. It was slightly longer than usual, as he'd had more important things to worry about lately than getting his hair cut, and now, after a day of tugging at it and grasping it in horror and compulsively running one hand through it, he looked like he'd just been struck by lightning. He hoped the result was more eccentric-genius than asylum-escapee, but one couldn't be sure ...

He stared down at the pile of neatly-bound notes that was one of the last things Carmen had done before ... before it had all gone wrong. Everything neatly ordered despite the outward appearance of chaos; yes, that was Carmen. Christ, Roger missed him ...

A door slammed somewhere behind him; somewhere back there in the dark, where Roger couldn't see, someone was coming ... he whipped his head around to stare in the direction from which the sound had come, but there was nothing there.

"All right, everyone, if I could have your attention ... ?" Roger called, clapping his hands as loudly as he could. The dancers all - some more gracefully than others - stopped and turned to watch him expectantly. "I'd like to take it one more time, from the top, please, if we can have you, darling, what's your name? Andy, of course, I beg your pardon - if we can have Andy, and you two - Michael, watch what you're doing with that arm, please, we don't want any injuries - you two over _there_, and - "

The door slammed a second time.

Roger jumped. Looked over his shoulder again. Back at the dancers. There really was nothing there.

But maybe ...

He looked again.

"Are you okay, Roger?" Leo asked. He had come over to stand nervously at Roger's side, concern written all over his boyish face. "What's up?"

"Nothing, Leo love. I'm fine. I just ... " He glanced back one more time, and Leo followed his gaze as Roger's voice trailed off and stopped altogether. "What, Roger? What?" Leo demanded. "There's nothing there! You're making me _nervous!"_

And now Max and Ulla were looking over, and for once Roger decided he really didn't want to be the centre of attention. He cleared his throat and clapped for silence again. "Never mind, Leo, darling," he said quietly, and then louder, to the whole room, "One more time, everyone, from the top! And _one _and two and three and four, and _one _and two ... "

**: : : : :**

Hidden behind a curtain in the corner of the room, Vanilla smiled to himself. He loved to watch Roger at work, and it was wonderful to see him back where he belonged, but sadly, he couldn't stay to enjoy it. He glanced down at the key in his hand, which until a few moments ago had been safely nestled in the pocket of Roger's jacket.

Time to go home.

**: : : : :**

Leo and Ulla decided to eat out. It wasn't that they didn't want to be in the apartment with Carmen, it was just ... that they _really _didn't want to be in the apartment with Carmen. Despite the fact that the place was wonderfully warm, he was bundled up on his sofabed with one of Ulla's spare duvets wrapped tightly around him, so that only his head was showing, all spiky hair and enormous eyes. He seemed fine with it when they told him they were heading out for the evening; or at any rate he hadn't said anything, which they'd taken to mean the same thing. They weren't sure he'd even heard them.

Max had gone for a drink - or several - with an old buddy of his from way back when; the show was finally looking like something he could brag about and so he had decided to do just that.

Roger arrived back at the townhouse to find the door already open. Which was just as well, as he couldn't for the life of him find his keys. Max and Leo must have rushed him out of the house so fast he'd left them behind. For a heartstopping moment, seeing all the lights blazing, he thought, _he's back! _and raced up the steps in a frenzy. There were clattering sounds coming from the kitchen, along with slightly out-of-tune singing, and Roger's heart sank. It was just Sabou. He winced as the houseboy hit a particularly painful note - Roger hadn't hired him for his vocal ability, after all. Hearing the front door close, Sabou popped out of the kitchen with a chef's hat perched on his head instead of the usual turban, and almost blinded Roger with a grin. "Well, hello!"

"Hello, dear boy. How was the vacation?"

"Fabulous!" Sabou handed Roger a drink which he'd somehow managed to pour without Roger seeing him do it, and Roger, without thinking, took an enormous gulp. Coughing and choking, his eyes watering like crazy, it was several seconds before he was able to pay attention to what Sabou was saying. " ... thought we'd had burglars! Did you leave the door open when you went out?"

"Do what?"

"The door," Sabou repeated, nodding toward it in case Roger didn't understand him, "was open, you know, when I got back this morning. I don't think anyone's been in here, though, not to worry. Oh, except - " he turned to point at the mantelpiece, and Roger, seeing what was there - or rather, what was not - shot to his feet, spilling his drink everywhere. "Except that picture of you," Sabou was saying, obliviously, "that's missing. Did you put it in your room? Pity, really - " he turned back to Roger and gave the director a look that once upon a time would have turned him to jelly " - I always liked that picure. So, how are rehearsals going? How's Carmen? How - Roger? Are you okay?"

If there was one thing Roger was absolutely, positively _not_, it was okay. He pointed to the gap where the picture had been, with a shaking finger, like the terrified heroine of some really dreadful old melodrama. He half expected the villain of the piece to come tiptoeing around the corner twirling his moustache ...

"Roger? What's going on?" Sabou was practically hopping from foot to foot in his anxiety. "You ... didn't move that picture?"

"No!" Roger finally managed to squeak. "And - did you say the door was open when you got here?"

"Well, not _open_, no," Sabou said, frowning slightly. "Unlocked, though. I thought one of you must be here but there was no-one home, so I figured you were all at rehearsals; I had a look round to check nothing was missing, but ... well, apart from, like I said, that picture ... " He took Roger by the shoulders and made him sit down before he fell down, and then he perched himself on the edge of the couch by Roger's side. "What's going on, Roger?"

Roger took a deep breath. This was going to take some explaining.

**: : : : :**


	6. Sabou Has A Very Bad Day

**6: Sabou Has A Very Bad Day**

Roger hadn't wanted to go to rehearsals the next day. The others had come home just as he'd finished telling Sabou the whole sorry story; even Shirley had been shocked out of her habitual deadpan calm when she heard about the missing picture.

"Never liked that kid," she muttered. Kevin snorted and said, "Well, honey, you _wouldn't_, would you?" but subsided when she gave him one of her death-ray stares. Scott was biting his nails. "Should we ... I don't know, change the locks or something?" he suggested, and Bryan and Sabou both nodded furiously.

"We should change the locks, yes," Roger said, "but not tonight, okay? It'll cost a fortune this time of night. And we're all here, aren't we? Nobody's going to try anything while I'm surrounded by my darling bodyguards, are they?" He hitched a smile onto his face with an enormous effort, even though smiling was just about the last thing in the world he felt capable of.

Bryan, Sabou and Scott all immediately tried to stand as tall as they could, puffing out their chests and pulling suitably bodyguard-ish faces. Shirley wasn't impressed. Kevin, on the other hand, was so overcome that he had to bury his face in his handkerchief.

So they'd made a plan, of sorts: Sabou would call a locksmith as early as possible the next morning, while the others all escorted Roger to rehearsals. And they thought they probably ought to let Max know - well, and Leo too, although they were slightly worried about his possible reaction when he heard that their director was being stalked.

But they figured the blue blanket would probably come into it somewhere.

**: : : : : **

"Tell him."

"Max, I can't! Ulla says - "

"I don't care what Ulla says! Most of the time she doesn't even say it in bloody English anyway!" Max had never been that mean about Ulla before; Leo was about to land a punch on his partner's nose - or at least he was about to try - but then he remembered that being unpleasant was just Max's way of dealing with stuff that scared him. He'd been the same after _Springtime _had turned out to be a hit ... it didn't mean anything. Well, not usually, anyway.

They were huddled together in the corner of the rehearsal room; Roger and the others had arrived early, for once, and Max had thought it a good sign - until they told him what was going on. It had taken a while to separate the truth from the wildly-embroidered versions Roger's team kept coming out with; but now they thought they had it pretty much figured out.

It did not sound good.

"Listen," Max said, one hand firmly on each of Leo's shoulders, forcing the younger man to look him in the eye. "Let's see if I have it right: the Story So Far. So, Roger got up to his old tricks, right? And Carmen walked out, good for him, grown a spine at last - and he's now staying with you and your lovely wife - "

"Keep your voice down!"

" - and meanwhile, Roger's fancy piece has decided not to lie down and play dead like the rest of them all seem to do, right? And if he actually _has _gotten hold of Roger's keys and stolen a picture or whatever it was, well, that's a bit creepy, but it's not the end of the world, is it? Not if we tell Roger where Carmen is! Then Roger can go round there and fix things up and Carmen can move back in with him, you and Ulla can go back to playing at Mr and Mrs, and that creepy little thief will get the message and bugger off!"

"So to speak."

Max chuckled. "So to speak."

"You make it sound so easy, Max ... " Leo sighed.

"That's because it _is _easy, Leo. It's _so _easy. Listen: step one - "

"No! No no no no NO!" Leo wailed. "Not another step-by-step plan, Max, please! I've heard them before ... and they're never good, they never work, they always end in trouble! I don't want to go back to jail, Max - "

At which point Max, desperate to shut him up, clapped a hand over Leo's mouth. But too late - the silence that had suddenly fallen over the room spoke volumes. They turned slowly to see everyone staring at them; Max attempted a hearty laugh which came out sounding a little mad, and Leo giggled nervously.

"Um," Max said, awkwardly, "Roger ... could we talk to you for a minute? There's something we need to tell you."

**: : : : : **

Sabou was having a very bad day.

It had started out okay - the others had gone off to rehearsals after breakfast, some of them taking their new bodyguarding duties very seriously; and Sabou had cleared up the breakfast stuff and then called a locksmith, who'd said he could be there within a few hours, which was great. So far so good.

But the minute he'd put the phone down, Sabou started to feel ... slightly uneasy. Like he was being watched. He decided to go upstairs and take a long hot bath; maybe that would help to get rid of the creepy feeling between his shoulderblades.

And it probably would have done.

If someone hadn't hit him over the head halfway up the stairs.

He'd woken up on the living room floor with a blinding headache and no clothes. Which was, to be fair, nothing new - it had happened many, many times since he'd moved in with Roger and friends, but usually there were a whole lot of pleasurable memories to compensate for the pain. This time there was only a huge bump on the side of his head and a stranger sitting on the couch as though he owned the place.

A stranger wearing Sabou's clothes.

**: : : : :**


	7. Confrontation

**7: Confrontation**

Roger's feet felt as though they were made of lead. The effort it was taking simply to lift one, then the other - it was ridiculous. But he kept his head down, kept trudging along, kept moving.

He'd raced round to Leo's apartment the minute Leo and Max had finally confessed. He hadn't even stopped to scream at the pair of them in a fury, to demand of them, _what the hell did you think you were doing, keeping him hidden from me? How dare you? How DARE you? _Instead the words repeated themselves in his mind, over and over and over as he ran into the street and flagged down a cab and practically shrieked Leo and Ulla's address at the startled driver.

Leo had handed over his keys, so getting in hadn't been a problem. But what he had found inside -

A strangled little sob escaped his lips; he clapped one hand across his mouth as though he was about to throw up. He wasn't sure, actually, that he _wasn't _about to throw up.

If he hadn't known it was Carmen sitting there, he would have thought some terrible sort of switch had taken place; that somehow Leo had managed to warn Carmen that Roger was on his way and they'd arranged for this ... substitute ... to be there instead.

He had Carmen's hair. Light brown, streaked with blond, and sticking up all over the place in those spikes that normally took _forever _to arrange.

Carmen's clothing - what could be seen of it, underneath the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders, despite the fact that the heating was turned up so high it was a little like stepping into a sauna. All black, excessively tight, almost indecent from the right angle ...

Carmen's eyes ...

Except they weren't. They were the same at first glance, true: enormous, bright blue, slightly turned down at the outside edges ... but when Roger looked into those eyes, there was nothing there that was Carmen. No passion, no spark. Nothing.

"Go away, Roger," the Carmen-who-wasn't had said, in a tired, hoarse voice. He sounded like he hadn't spoken for weeks. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"Oh, but please, Carmen - " Roger had begun, helplessly, and he'd actually fallen to his knees, right there in Leo's living room, clutching at the blanket that Carmen was pulling closer around his body as though it could protect him from Roger's onslaught. "Please," Roger said again, feeling tears welling up in his eyes and letting them spill unchecked down his cheeks, "please just listen to me ... Carmen, I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I - I don't know - you've always forgiven me before, can't you - ?"

Carmen had laughed, a soft, humourless little laugh. "But that's the trouble, can't you see?" he asked in that dreadful broken voice. "Yes, I've always forgiven you before. And you've always gone straight out there and done it again - "

"No - " Roger began, but Carmen had screamed, "Yes! _Yes_, Roger! Every time, every single fucking time!" He shot to his feet, towering over Roger, who stayed crouched on the floor, shocked into silence. "And there's nothing about _this_ time that's any different, is there?" Carmen demanded, the cocoon of numbness that had surrounded him for weeks suddenly stripped away by this unexpected blast of rage.

"Tell me, then," Roger had whispered, "what to do. Please. Tell me how to make it better."

Carmen had sighed, "I don't know, Roger. I don't have an easy answer for you. I think this is something you have to figure out for yourself."

And before Roger could say anything else, he had added, "I really think you should go now."

**: : : : :**

He had to ring the doorbell, which was stupid. _It's my bloody house, _he thought furiously, _it's ridiculous that I can't even open my own front door _...

Nobody answered. Roger, stamping his feet on the doorstep in an effort to get some feeling back into them, was getting crosser and crosser by the second. He rang the bell a second time, and then a third, and then, losing his temper altogether, he pounded on the door with his fist.

"Roger, darling, I'm so sorry!" Sabou exclaimed, flinging open the door and ushering Roger inside, "Come in, come in, I'll get you something to drink, you must be frozen!"

Roger shrugged out of his coat, allowed Sabou to take it and hang it up; he turned towards the couch, was almost sitting when the realisation struck like a thunderbolt and he leapt once more to his feet -

It wasn't Sabou.

Roger's stomach clenched like a fist, his heart started beating a little too fast, he reached out towards the man now wearing Sabou's clothes, tried to grab his arm, but Vanilla was too quick and moved out of reach. "Where's Sabou?" Roger demanded through clenched teeth.

A shrug. "He's around," Vanilla said carelessly. "He had a bit of a headache, he had to lie down. It was lucky I was here, really, wasn't it? Lucky I had those keys of yours ... I cancelled the locksmith, darling, because I already _have _the right key, there's no need to change things, is there? Oh, yes, Sabou ... he's fine. We can invite him to join us later, if you like. Once we've had a little chat and got a few things ... straightened out." And he sat down hard on the sofa - on Carmen's ridiculous pink pillows - and crossed his arms and legs in an attitude of amazing stubbornness.

"Get out." Roger said flatly.

Vanilla snorted out a quiet laugh. "No, Roger," he said, calmly. "I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you." And before Roger could say another word, Vanilla reached behind one of the pillows - _get your filthy hands off those, they're Carmen's! _- and produced a gun. Roger's heart did some more stuttering and he could feel sweat beginning to gather on his upper lip.

"Oh - now, hold on - " he stammered. It wasn't the first time he'd found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, but somehow he doubted Vanilla would be as easy to escape from as Franz had been. There were no handy closets to hide in, for starters.

"Hold on?" Vanilla laughed again, louder this time. "Oh, but I _am _holding on, Roger, my love. Holding on to your _every _word. Holding on to this gun. See how I obey you?"

"Leave, then," Roger said desperately. "If you want to obey me, then just ... leave. Go away!"

The younger man lifted his chin. "No."

For a second Roger forgot about the gun and blurted, furiously, "What in the name of Gloria - what do you mean, no?"

"I mean _no_," Vanilla said, louder now, and even more determined. "I mean, you _wanted_ me here, right?"

"Uh ... well, yes, I did, once! One night! Which was a _mistake_, a terrible mistake, I'm sorry, but - "

"So now I'm here. Just like you wanted." Vanilla's expression shifted, changed to something else. Some kind of a smile; a quiet smile, but a deeply unpleasant one all the same. Roger stared at him in horror. "Just like you wanted," Vanilla said, softly, "and we all give Roger _whatever_ he wants, don't we? All of us so eager to be _chosen _... whatever you want, Roger, whenever you want it ... that's the way it goes, right? And never mind the fact that you change your mind again ten minutes later, never mind the fact that as soon as you have us, you don't want us any more ... well, fine. Fine - for everyone else. Fine for bloody _Carmen, _too, even if it has taken you - what, ten years? - to realise you don't want him, either. But not fine for me." Vanilla got to his feet, and within a heartbeat was standing right in front of Roger, staring up into the older man's eyes with a very intense stare indeed. His eyes were darker than Roger had realised; the only non-vanilla thing about him, to be honest.

But they were burning with a distinctly non-vanilla fire right now, and Roger felt he was treading on very thin ice indeed.

He tried to be rational. "The others will be home soon," he said, in as normal a voice as he could manage, "rehearsals will have finished ... "

"Have you even been listening to a word I've said?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I have. I'm sorry."

"Well?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Roger said, and he sank down to sit on the floor, in a miserable heap. "It's true, all of it's true - I've behaved simply dreadfully, you're right. I can - " he laughed, half-hysterical " - I can resist everything except temptation! But - "

Vanilla was watching him with narrowed eyes. "But?"

"But you're wrong about one thing. You're wrong about Carmen. I do want him. I want him very much."

The young man's face flushed suddenly with rage; he aimed the gun at Roger's chest, and snarled, "You're lying."

"No," Roger said, simply, and didn't really care whether or not the kid pulled the trigger. Just so long as he could say the rest of it. "I want him forever. I need him here, with me. I love him."

There was a sound from the doorway; the softest of sighs, and Roger scrambled to his feet, whirling to face the newcomer, tears suddenly blurring his eyes.

"I love you too, Roger," said Carmen.

And Vanilla pulled the trigger.

**: : : : :**


	8. Ever After

**8: Ever After**

The sound of sirens stayed in Roger's ears for months. He would wake in the night, terrified, convinced that Vanilla was standing at the foot of the bed, gun in hand, that the whole bloody nightmare was going to start over again.

He got the portrait back; the police found it with the glass smashed and the frame beyond repair; but the drawing itself was fine apart from a few creases. Roger thought it appropriate that picture-Roger was showing the same signs of having been to hell and back as the real Roger, and so it was given a new - much plainer - frame, and returned to its place on the mantelpiece.

The show opened to huge acclaim. But the celebrations were muted; Max was strangely quiet and Leo the one who now seemed to be leading the pair. Ulla never left his side, not for a second, and it made Roger smile to see the obvious love between them. Every now and again he would catch Leo looking at him with such a strange expression in his eyes; and he knew Leo was thinking, _what if - ? _If he'd confessed sooner; would things be different, now?

Did it matter?

The ceremony had been very small; Max and Leo and Ulla, of course; Bryan and Kevin, weeping unashamedly into their handkerchiefs, arms around each other; Scott and Shirley like the oddest of odd couples; Sabou, still sporting a wonderfully multicoloured bruise at his temple; and Franz, because - well - it just seemed right to have the old gang all together again.

One of Max's little old ladies had done the flowers. They were slightly over-the-top, but Roger hadn't had the heart to tell her, and anyway, it did seem somehow appropriate.

Carmen had always loved over-the-top.

**: : : : :**

He was fine until the music started. Well, maybe not fine, exactly, but at least he was keeping it together.

And then they started playing that damn song. And everything got kind of blurred, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Roger could feel his whole body starting to shake and he dug his fingers as hard as he could into his thighs, trying to stop the trembling.

But all too soon, it had begun; Max, acting as Master of Ceremonies in the absence of an actual priest, was looking at him in a very purposeful manner, and he got to his feet, repeating to himself, over and over, _I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry -_

And he didn't. He kept it together.

Right up until the part where he and Carmen said, "I do."

**: : : : :**


End file.
